


ice gray, your hand in mine

by riots



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:33:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23520874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riots/pseuds/riots
Summary: “Golden Oriole,” Geralt says wonderingly, popping the lid on the potion. “You remembered?” His voice is soft in a way that makes Jaskier flush, and he refuses to look up at Geralt.“I’m a bard,” Jaskier says. “Remembering things is what I do.”winter is only just beginning to thaw, and jaskier never expected to stumble on geralt, far from the cold of kaer morhen and looking like he got dragged through the mud.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 28
Kudos: 403
Collections: Robot Rainbow 2020





	ice gray, your hand in mine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reeby10](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reeby10/gifts).



The door creaks shut behind him, and Jaskier scoffs, kicking his heel against the cobble. “‘Too many sad songs’,” he grumbles, and he shifts his bags on his shoulder. The sun is just beginning to set, and the street is noisy with people moving from work to home. “I won an award for that ballad! Does no one appreciate real talent around here?” Apparently not. Three days ago, he’d made a bargain with the innkeeper: a room at the inn for the cost of his singing. There were few bards still making the rounds in winter, and he was sure a little entertainment would be welcome. Not his type of entertainment, it seemed. 

Oxenfurt was very nice, and the coin he got from teaching even nicer, but as soon as the snow began to thaw the wanderlust had set in. Spring was early this year, but he still didn’t expect to see Geralt for a month or two yet, and so he’d set out on his own. Just a quick little jaunt around the north of Redania, he’d thought, he’d get to see some new faces and try out some new work before his big performance in a couple of weeks. Except, as it turns out, people were stingy with what little coin they had left at the end of the winter. After a few weeks on the road, his purse is running tragically light and he certainly doesn’t have enough to pay for a night at the inn himself.

“Guess it’s back to roughing it,” Jaskier sighs, and he heads out of town. At least by now he’s got some practice in. Even learned how to build a fire all by his lonesome. 

His mouth twists a little at the thought. He certainly is a bit lonesome now. It’s - well, it’s strange, being back on his own again. It’s not as bad as it was, the first few weeks after the hunt on the mountain, but that doesn’t make it easy, either. He is, sadly, too used to traveling with Geralt now. It makes the cold nights a bit longer, traveling alone.

And that’s even with how things are strained between them, since what happened on the mountain. Jaskier sighs as he treks further from town, already dreading the night ahead. He’d run into Geralt a few months after the hunt, this time in Mirt. Jaskier had been halfway through an old ballad when he’d looked up and seen him. He’d lost the tune, and if he wasn’t the consummate professional that he _was_ , he wouldn’t have recovered.

He’d intended to beat a hasty retreat to his room, but Witchers are very good at cornering their prey. When Geralt had stopped him at the stairs, one big hand on his wrist, he’d been expecting to feel - well, he didn’t know. Furious, heartbroken, a million other things. But mostly, he’d felt tired. 

He certainly hadn’t expected Geralt to apologize, and as apologies went, it’d been very middling. Geralt stumbled through a quick ‘sorry, I didn’t mean it’, and while an unfortunately large part of him had been elated, Jaskier wasn’t foolish enough to think it was enough to heal the damage that Geralt had done. However, he was also practical enough to know that riding with Geralt was the most lucrative choice he had, and he’d been an idiot to let it go.

And so, they’d continued on. A year and a half of pretending as though all was well, nothing had changed. It was a harder prospect than Jaskier had expected, honestly. The two of them had always had a comfortable rapport but after Geralt had snapped on him, Jaskier had been left seeing the holes in their relationship. Perhaps he really should cut his losses and go his own way. He’d started on the road as a young man because he wanted new experiences to write about - how much longer could he travel with the same man and still see new sights?

Except - one night, not long before they’d parted for the winter, as Jaskier had waited at the campfire for Geralt’s return, he’d been startled by a feather dropped in his lap. It’d been pale grey and sleek, nearly the length of his forearm. When he’d looked up, he’d found Geralt covered in gore and mud, his pale hair plastered to his head with blood, dragging the head of the griffin they’d set out to find. But the feather? Pristine. Untouched. 

“What’s this for?” he’d asked as Geralt tossed down the trophy. Geralt had seemed even more reticent than usual, pushing his filthy hair out of his face as he’d looked away.

“Never seen that colour before,” he’d said gruffly. He’d glanced up at Jaskier, who’d furrowed his brows. “Just thought - since you can’t be there and I’m not - good. At telling stories. I thought maybe I’d show you.”

At this, he’d turned to the saddle bags, pulling out a clean set of clothes and heading off to the nearby stream to clean up for the night, and Jaskier had been left a bit dumbstruck, turning the feather over in his hands, a trophy of his own.

He’d be damned if he told Geralt that he carried it still, pressed between the pages of his notebook. He’s always been sentimental. He just doesn’t need it thrown back in his face.

As the sky darkens, Jaskier catches sight of a campfire, set higher up in the forest by the road. The town is long behind him now, and the warmth of the day is fading, and he must find a place to stop the night. Perhaps it’s foolish, but there is safety in numbers, particularly if you’re a bard with little experience with a blade, and no Witcher to keep you safe.

As such, he’s astounded to see the man by the fire is _Geralt_. He’s clearly roughed up, one eye swollen shut and his shirt in tatters, hands shaking as he tries to clean a nasty looking wound stretching across his ribs. Looks like he’s really buggered it too. Jaskier sighs, letting his bag slide from his shoulder with a thump. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say Geralt looks startled to see him, but he’s a Witcher. If Jaskier’s surprising him at this point, he’s certainly worse off than he looks. 

“What was it this time?” he asks. Geralt watches him warily through his good eye, bloodied hands paused. Jaskier ignores him, instead stepping over to Roach and digging through Geralt’s saddlebags. He’s patched him up a time or two, he’s got a good idea of what he’ll need. He’s more concerned with how Geralt’s left Roach saddled. This must’ve been a rough fight.

His fingers close around a flask, and he pulls it out to smell nothing but water. “Wyvern,” Geralt says finally, his voice hoarse, and Jaskier dives in again, this time for bandages and a certain small bottle. “Picked up the contract in Ghelibol.” When Jaskier rounds on him, pushing his sleeves up and dropping to his knees in the soil next to him, he shakes his head. “You don’t have to do this -” he starts.

“It’s not like you can do it for yourself, now, is it?” Jaskier takes the bloodied remains of Geralt’s shirt from his hands and tosses it away. “Let me.”

Geralt holds himself very still as Jaskier cleans him up. Wyverns are venomous, Jaskier remembers, and it’s probably why Geralt looks like he was dragged through the mud. “Here. Drink this while I bind it.”

“Golden Oriole,” Geralt says wonderingly, popping the lid on the potion. “You remembered?” His voice is soft in a way that makes Jaskier flush, and he refuses to look up at Geralt. Instead, he focuses on his hands, on binding the wound clean and tight until Geralt’s Witcher mutagens can kick in. 

“I’m a bard,” Jaskier says. “Remembering things is what I do.” It’s a half truth, and under his touch, Geralt’s skin stretches warm as he tips his head back to drink the potion. Not for the first time, Jaskier wishes he didn’t know that Geralt can hear his heartbeat. 

Finally done, he sits back on his heels to admire his handiwork. “Why are you here, anyway?” he asks. “I hadn’t expected to see you for another month at least. I thought we’d agreed on Ban Ard in the spring.”

Geralt tests the bandage with his hands, gentle. “Thaw came early.” It sounds like a half-truth, too, and Jaskier wonders if he even wants to know. He knows he’s only got a window to part of Geralt’s life, after all. He straightens and stands again, gathering up the flasks and leftover bandages to tidy them away. He’s facing Roach when Geralt speaks again. “And you - you spoke of a performance. At the equinox.” Geralt isn’t a man of many words but Jaskier is certain he’s never heard him sound so...unsure. “Said Birke this year was a big deal for you.”

Jaskier is a bit thunderstruck. He remembers telling Geralt of his residency at Oxenfurt for the winter, and of how he was to lead an entire university performance himself on Birke, the equinox. He remembers telling him of how nervous he was, excited and scared. But he tells Geralt _most_ thoughts that run through his head. He hadn’t expected Geralt to retain this particular detail.

“You thought you’d get in a little culture?” Jaskier asks. He doesn’t - he doesn’t want to read anything into this. He’s had years to adjust to the yearning he feels for Geralt, and he knows better than almost anything that wanting doesn’t make something so. And yet -

“Hmm.” He can hear the scowl in Geralt’s voice. “Not - exactly.”

As Jaskier puts away the water flask, his fingers catch on something. A package, carefully wrapped. Something Geralt wished to keep in good condition. A corner is pulled back, revealing a book. Gingerly, gently, Jaskier pulls it out. “And this?” he asks. His heart is pounding rabbit-fast in his chest.

Geralt shakes his head, the corner of his mouth pulling up. “It was _meant_ to be a surprise,” he says, and that’s all the encouragement Jaskier needs to pull the butcher paper away. 

It’s a notebook. Bound in beautifully worked leather, the pages thick and soft. It must’ve cost a fortune. He has to scramble to catch the next part, a cascade of pens that tumble from the last of the wrapping. He holds them up to the firelight, and he realizes that they’re hand-carved, covered in - “Buttercups?” Jaskier asks, his voice so quiet.

Geralt shrugs his good shoulder. “Winters are long. I had to occupy myself somehow.” He gestures at the book. “I’ve - I bought that in Vizima, the last time we were there. I’ve been carrying it awhile.”

It takes Jaskier several long moments to recover his words. “I - awhile. _Awhile_? Geralt, we were in Vizima _last summer_.” He’s been carrying a gift for him this long? And these - he rubs his thumb along the carved edge of one of the pens. He’d made them for him. “I don’t even know what to say! What - I - why?” He clutches his gifts to his chest, as though they could help slow his traitorous heart.

Geralt visibly steels himself, taking a deep breath, straightening his back as much as he can with his wound. “I know that I’m not great at showing you that I. Care. I care about you. A great deal, actually.” A wild hope surges in Jaskier’s chest, before he can tell it no. “And I hurt you, that day on the mountain.” Jaskier stares at him. The pessimistic part of him had convinced himself that Geralt had forgotten all about it, but that he remembered - more, that he wanted to make it up to him? “So I’m trying to be better.”

Carefully, Jaskier takes his precious new gifts and tucks them away in his bag, next to his old notebook with the feather. “It’s an admirable start,” he says, and his voice shakes like Geralt’s hands do. 

He rests his new notebook on his bags and when he turns back to Geralt, he’s got his good hand held out to Jaskier. For someone who knows Geralt, who’s spent years learning to read his tone and his body, it’s as unambiguous an invitation as there can be. Jaskier takes it, lets himself be pulled down to sit next to Geralt. His heart races. “I know I have work to do,” Geralt says. He doesn’t let go of Jaskier’s hand, and the way he looks at him, _oh_. Geralt watches him, unsure but steady, and Jaskier’s fingers curl around Geralt’s jaw almost without his own volition. “But I want to be good. For you.” 

Jaskier’s heart leaps in his chest and he can’t help himself, he leans in and catches Geralt’s lips in a kiss. He’s daydreamed about this, idly, on and off, but nothing prepared him for the sheer joy of it. Geralt sags against him, the tension easing out of his body as he kisses _back_ , warm and sweet. “I take it back,” Jaskier says as they part, and Geralt’s brow furrows, his shoulders rising. “It’s _one hell_ of a start,” Jaskier laughs, and Geralt growls and pulls him in close, and Jaskier heart sings with it. 

It’s a start.


End file.
